


Primavera

by wendydarling



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood and Violence, Bloodlust, Broken Characters, Dark Katsuki Yuuri, Dark Victor Nikiforov, Graphical Depiction of Violence, M/M, NO non-con between Yuuri and Viktor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 07:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendydarling/pseuds/wendydarling
Summary: Yuuri, an abducted member of Tokyo's underground fighting for who knows how long, travels to Russia for a mission.Viktor, the beautiful and cruel leader of the newest fight club in St. Petersburg, is fascinated with the seemingly soft newcomer with teeth that ripped out throats and fingers that have gouged out eyes.





	Primavera

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Yuri On Ice nor do I gain profit from this.
> 
> Warning: Please heed all the archive warnings. This is a bloody and violent fanfiction with themes revolving around dark characters.
> 
>  **Important: There is implied non-con from Yuuri's past. There will NEVER be non-con between Yuuri and Viktor in this story.** I've always spelled Yuuri without a 'u' but it is important to distinguish the two Yuris both so I had to.
> 
> If anyone is annoyed that Yuuri's POV shifts so suddenly, and that he seems like an unfeeling character, its because I was writing it through how Yuuri would see it. He is messed up, and his thoughts are jumbled and jumping all the time.

Yuuri will be staying in Russia for only a week.

 

His boss’ accomplice (Yuuri doesn’t deem these people worthy of having friends) called and brought up a favour long due. He’s losing money, losing business due to a new up and rising underground fighting ring with more vicious players in the game.

 

So Yuuri is sent to rectify the situation. Show these Russians playing Hades what true carnage looks like. “Enough is enough”, his boss intones passively, “they need to be put in their place.” Yuuri is sent to Russia like cattle to be butchered, and he only shrugs, his only way of showing agreement.

 

A half-hearted shrug which meant that he knows he doesn’t have a choice. 

 

The first day in St. Petersburg passes by like seconds to Yuuri. He doesn’t remember much, mind hazy with the rush of unwanted adrenaline from a fight. Its Monday and he’s booked until Friday morning at the dingy inn with a flickering light bulb casting a glow on Yuuri’s spent form.

 

He’s laying on the floor, body aching with a numb mind. The bruises present on his skin are starting to colour. It serves as a reminder to him of what happened hours ago.

 

Yuuri found the new fight ring fairly easy. The underground fighting ring was so different to the literal sewer that is Tokyo’s most infamous pit. There were eight different arenas depending on which hallway you walk through; the biggest dedicated to the best of the best. 

 

As he was a new face, Yuuri was sent to what is considered the bottom dwellers of this hierarchy. There were so many queuing up to fight, their eyes ablaze with either greed or violence. Yuuri remained silent as he waited for his turn to be approved. He was standing in line when a girl with raven hair and olive skin stops in front of him. She smiled, assessing him from head to toe.

 

“Now what is a pretty face doing down here?” She asked in english. Yuuri was too used to this to even get riled up. It used to work on him when he was still new to the pit, but it has been so long, and the only words he could get out were, “I know how to fight.”

 

The stranger grins maniacally and motions for Yuuri to stand up and follow her. She knew better than to touch him, a person signing up for a beating is as flighty as an eagle. Yuuri follows her, and they pass through a throng of people whose eyes follow their wake. They go to the third hallway, and Yuuri thought that he has suddenly evolved from bottom dweller to a fish that eats dirt. The third hallway had less people lining up, and they looked awful. Bruises blooming on their skin like splashes of paint, and limbs hanging or twisted in such ungodly ways. They stop in front of the line where a wooden desk is without an attendant. The girl takes the seat and extends her hand to Yuuri, asking for the scrap of paper where he wrote his name.

 

“Oh? You’re name’s Yuuri? We have a Yuri here too. He’s shorter than you, but he at least looks scary.” Yuuri ignores the mockery, knows it was just a ruse to rile him up for the fight. She giggles at Yuuri’s unresponsiveness. 

 

“The third arena is the crowd favourite, since the rest are closed. I hear participants and viewers alike call it the gateway to hell. Only those who fought tooth and nail from the first and second can pass the third, which then continues to a cycle until they reach the seventh. No one has yet to pass the seventh.” She says with a grin, pearly white teeth glimmering similar to a shark’s.

 

_Because they haven’t met me yet._

 

Yuuri couldn’t help but think.

 

“Why am I given the privilege then?”

 

She hasn’t cease her smiling. “A little once in a while, we need sacrificial lambs, right? This is a business after all.” She hands Yuuri back his paper and points toward a doorway, laughing so loudly the others have stared at her in confusion. “Tell my brother I said hello.” She says, whimsical tone laced with smugness. 

 

Yuuri felt confused regarding her last words, but he ignored it and just went through the door as she has said. A redhead greets him with startled eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Yuuri hands her the paper with a seal on it, and the redhead reads it with fury before handing it back to Yuuri. Her hands are shaking, and Yuuri thinks that she’s stopping herself from clumping it into a ball.

 

“Fucking Sara is acting like the Queen of Sheba again.” She mumbles under her breath. She levels her gaze to Yuuri and says, “Well, Yuuri, if you expected a fair fight, then you’re not having it. If you think this is a blessing, then it is not. The only thing that is to be known today is that Sara is a fucking bitch who sold you to your death for her brother to feast on.” She gives Yuuri a once-over  and grumbles incoherently before directing her attention to Yuuri again.

 

“You should have at least tried dressing for the part. Your spineless twerp look is probably why Sara chose you.” Yuuri looks down at his blue and white jacket, black basketball shorts, and worn-out trainers. He shrugs and says, “I don’t need to impress anybody.”

 

“Exactly. You didn’t need to, and now look at you. The match hasn’t even started yet but I know I’m already looking at Michele’s newest chew toy.” She clicks her tongue and was about to say another thing when the door situated at the other end of where Yuuri stood opens a tiny bit.

 

“Challenger, you’re up.” The voice at the other end says. Yuuri could hear the deafening crowd screaming from what he imagines are the bleachers. The redhead clicks her tongue one more time, “Well, go on then. Idling here won’t shorten the inevitable.” Yuuri nods and passes through the final door to where the arena is. 

 

The audience started shouting louder upon seeing Yuuri. With his ‘spineless twerp’ outfit, his thick-framed glasses, and his supposed frail looking build underneath the bagginess of his clothes, Yuuri resembles the kid that the villagers offer to appease an angry god. Yuuri’s blood rushes throughout his body, his heart pumping with the all-too familiar scene in front of him. He always had this advantage among his opponents that one can say it was unfair. Yuuri is not the sacrificial lamb, he is the god simply waiting for an imbecile mortal to mistake him as one of them.

 

Yuuri’s mind is back at his room in the inn. 

 

This is the part where things usually get cloudy. He can recall bits and pieces from the fight; Sara’s brother Michele under his palm and screaming as Yuuri’s blunt and jagged fingernails dug into his skin so roughly that it drew blood. He remembers Michele screaming, and he remembered at that moment that he had a free right arm. Yuuri flexes his arm, feels the different muscles of his body go taut, adducts the limb anteriorly, and brings his olecranon raining down Michele’s face. Sara was still screaming by then, the crowd was going crazy, and by the corner of his eye, he sees the redhead from earlier jumping down to the pit. The only one silent was his opponent, crushed underneath Yuuri’s brutality. 

 

Yuuri feels his scapula and presses a finger down. The flesh remained unyielding to his touch, minor and major muscles stuck. Yuuri feels alive with the numbness of it. His phone, a cheap old thing, makes a beeping sound that shakes Yuuri out of his thoughts. He takes it from where it was situated above his head to read the message from his boss.

 

_Good work. Did not expect anything else._

 

Yuuri closes it and places it back to where it was originally. He wonders if Michele’s alive but doesn’t feel guilty for it. Recalls his taunts, the snide way an alpha male would look at someone who seemed less. Dozens upon dozens of memories present inside his mind of the same ways his other opponents did with him. Yuuri exhales, a deep and empty sigh to fill in the silence of the room. 

 

He closes his eyes and doesn’t dream.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Viktor was on his fifth stick of cigarette when the door to the empty eight arena opens. Mila is panting, red hair sticking to her forehead due to the sweat of which her glands are producing to the extreme. Viktor doesn’t speak, only raises a fine silver brow and waits for Mila to speak.

 

“Sara put in a newcomer with Michele.” She says, still catching her breath. Viktor takes a drag from his cigarette, puffs it out, says, “Should I be acting surprised?” Before Viktor could ponder why Mila’s eyes suddenly shone, lips curling into a smirk, she says, “Sara put in a newcomer with Michele. A newcomer who is beating his ass.”

 

Viktor’s eardrums ring, his fingers tensing underneath the tanned leather gloves he always wear. He crushes his cigarette on the concrete of the bleaches and rushes to the stairs, to Mila who hasn’t been this excited since the Plisetsky brat joined their ranks.

 

They don’t exchange words, just went on walking to the carnage Mila promises. Mila leads the way to the third arena, surprising Viktor with the sheer noise coming from the crowd. He didn’t want to brag, but the only time they were ever this boisterous is when its him fighting inside the pit. Viktor looks down to see Michele and the shorter, raven-haired newcomer circling each other like hawks. The newcomer was only wearing basketball shorts, his jacket discarded to the side. Viktor wonders what seems so special with this match. Sure, there were always gifted fighters like Yuri Plisetsky, and yet he never saw a crowd this enraptured with a match.

 

The scene flashes right in front of Viktor’s eyes. 

 

The newcomer attacks with such speed Viktor swore he disappeared from sight. He’s crouching low, right feet extended, left foot holding his ground, pressure on metatarsals, tendons slack but rigid, as he pivots, spins, and knocks Michele on his knees. The boy doesn’t waste his time, standing up, running to Michele, and slamming his heel to the boy’s head and down to the ground. 

 

Michele isn’t the leader in the third arena for nothing. He recovers quickly, left hand pushing his self up and his right grabbing for the other’s foot. But the newcomer is faster. Faster than Michele, more agile than any other Viktor has seen, and so strong his hands are aching to be freed from the gloves, jump down to the pit, and take down this bestial challenger.

 

Michele’s able to wrap his hand around the other’s ankle, but as soon as he tugs, the other uses the points of the space around him. Michele tugs him upwards, probably hoping to hold him down and beat him like the other did to him, but his confidence was his mistake. Instead of going down ungracefully, the newcomer twists his body to the side and seize hold of Michele’s head, twisting it to the side. Not enough to cause injury, but ample for Michele to understand that if he forces to pin down the other, his neck would be dislocated away from his spine. 

 

The crowd howls at that tiny bit of surrender, but the newcomer was not satisfied. The moment he’s up, he kicks Michele on the side, and smashes his face with his open palm. His nails dig on Michele’s face, drawing blood. From near the pit, he can make out Sara’s screams. The guards force her arms behind, and she’s kicking and screaming for them to stop the fight.

 

The newcomer and Michele stayed like that for a while. Michele’s trying to kick him off with his feet but the other climbs on top of him and pinned his hips down. Viktor’s heart soars. Heart racing, mind going into overdrive imagining his self in Michele’s place. This savage beast clawing at his face and forcing him to submit. He couldn’t help the breathy laugh that exit his mouth when he thinks of the other underneath him instead, face bashed in and bloody, looking up at Viktor. He imagines himself looking the same way; probably worst and coloured black and blue and purple in the face with all the punches he would receive from this otherworldly, vicious thing. No, not thing. An equal. Whether its him getting beaten, or him doing the beating, it excites Viktor like no other.

 

Here’s someone with the same strength as him. Someone who looked so soft and not belonging in his world, but had no qualms in fighting. Someone who can fight Viktor to the death, and still claw at him with his last breath. His bloodlust is so stimulated he almost lost focus on the fight in front of him.

 

As if he hasn’t been intrigued enough, the newcomer slams his elbow to Michele’s face and knocks him out cold. The arena bellows around him. 

 

And, as if he hasn’t been charmed off his pants, the newcomer manages to find Viktor’s eyes among the crowd the moment he spits out blood from his mouth. 

 

Viktor thinks this is as good as a marriage proposal.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Yuuri, for all the softness that naive people note due to his looks, sleeps with fists closed and shoots straight when disturbed. But this time, in the comfort of this rundown inn, he sleeps on his side, palms on the scratchy comforter. He’s awake already, can feel the sun rays seeping in through the window and encouraging him to open his eyes. 

  
For all the numbness of his right upper body, his entirety ache. He gets up the bed with a groan and silently wishes that this inn offers hot water. The small bathroom offers a clean tub and a knob for hot water. Yuuri turns it and waits for a while before the lukewarm water changes temperature. Soon, the tub has smoke curling up the tiny ceiling. Yuuri removes his clothes, dips his toes in the water, and lets his body relax. He turns the faucet off and just lays there, coaxing his body to stop pounding.

 

Yuuri’s strength goes beyond the physical. Years of being a fighter in the pit built him solid, mental capabilities. Moments like these are the only times Yuuri lets his mind freely wonder. 

 

Of his childhood, his abduction, the people he killed to survive, and the people he spared in hopes they break free only to be killed by another. Yuuri’s eyes are closed, his body submerged in the scorching heat of the water sans his nose, eyes, and the top of his head.

 

He thinks of these memories not to hope, that has been long past due, but to strengthen himself. Silver, blue, and green flash behind Yuuri’s closed eyes, and he finds himself fumbling for the edges of the tub. 

 

 _What?_ He asks himself.

 

Yuuri brushes it off. He always loses his mind when fighting, and he categorises it as something his peripheral probably caught. 

 

Yuuri thinks of the reason why he is here in Russia. 

 

Join the new underground fighting ring in St. Petersburg, rise through the ranks, beat their leader, and deliver his heart to his boss’ accomplice to wipe their business out.  

 

He sinks deeper into the water with his legs against his chest, his arms encircled around them. The flashes of silver, blue, and green, continued to spark like flames in his mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Yuuri returns to the underground the same time he did yesterday. This time, people all around are whispering about him. He ignores it in favour of looking at the different halls, unsure of where he should go. The same redhead he saw yesterday walks toward him from where she was standing near the path to the third arena. 

 

“Yuuri. Back for more, I see.” 

 

Yuuri nods, “No bruises, no money.” It makes the redhead laugh, and she starts walking with Yuuri following her behind. 

 

Yuuri guesses its the reason why this fighting ring is getting more popular compared to the one his boss’ accomplice runs. They have consent forms, and ranks, and people get paid to fight. Unlike traditional fighting rings that composed of kidnapped beings who gain no profit while getting beaten up every day. Yuuri shakes his head free from these thoughts. He reminds himself that he’s on a mission, that he has to fight, and that he cannot be thinking of other things other than becoming the infamous Siberian winters himself. Cold, deadly, and unforgiving. 

 

_Later, later. Next time. Not today._

 

Yuuri promises to himself. He’ll think of these necessities next time. Not now, when he has to bare his teeth and fight. So Yuuri buries it all more deeper than it already is, making himself believe that one day he will think about all the locked boxes inside his recesses. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Beautiful? He’s like a lumpy waste of space.” Yuri scoffs. He takes a swig of the carbonated water Viktor handed him. They’re seating at the very front of the arena, right there in between the guards. Viktor ignores Yuri in favour of watching the newcomer, no, he knows his name now, Yuuri, remove the same jacket he was wearing yesterday and black shirt. He’s wearing basketball shorts again, but this time of a different colour. 

 

Viktor’s eyes trace over the expanse of Yuuri’s skin that is currently exposed. The third arena is packed to the brim. Word goes around fast when a strong challenger arrives after all. Yuuri is muscled in all the right places that ensure strength, but not heavy enough to hinder his agility and speed. What fascinates Viktor the most is that Yuuri’s skin, though marred with scars, remain beautiful under the cheap lighting the third arena offers. He can trace the number of scars on his abdomen, so close to Yuuri that with a measly five steps he would be standing right at the edge of the pit.

 

“You wouldn’t know beauty even if it hit you in the face, Yuri.” The younger scowls at Viktor, was about to say a retort, but the shouts of excitement filled the room when Yuuri and his opponent both started circling each other. Viktor didn’t even bother knowing who Yuuri’s opponent is. The other is unworthy, Viktor just knows it. Knows that Yuuri will prove to Viktor, and Yuri, who refuses to accept Yuuri’s strength (“because Michele’s weak anyway,” according to the younger), that he is indeed worthy of their attention.

 

Yuuri waits patiently for his opponent to attack, Viktor notes. The other looks smug, obviously unaware of Yuuri’s mercilessness. A small part of Viktor is grumbling at him for acting almost obsessively towards a fighter he barely knows, haven’t even spoken to. 

 

The smug bastard gets tired of circling around Yuuri and rushes to him head on to attack. He’s taller than Yuuri and built like a monster, and with his mistake, Yuuri evades. Yuuri deposits a back kick to his opponent the moment he side-steps. He makes use of the momentum, and before his towering contender could go down to his knees, Yuuri pivots the heel of his right foot and changes his disarming kick to planting the other’s face to the ground. A minute hasn’t even past, and the crowd is cheering again. They were so used to seeing burly men fighting it out in a battle with fists, but here is Yuuri, with his perfect footwork and unbelievable strength, finishing matches within the blink of an eye.

 

Viktor can already imagine it. Yuuri who is made a killer, not some backwater street brawler with hardened knuckles. Yuuri who could take him on in a real fight.

 

But the fight isn’t over yet. Yuuri delivers a punishing kick with the heel of his right foot on the man’s lumbar, and he screams. Yuuri drops to his knees, grabs hold of the man by the neck, and Viktor was so sure he would have killed the man right then and there if it wasn’t for the commentator screaming that the fight’s over and the guards rushing to separate Yuuri from the man. 

 

It makes Viktor pout childishly, he wanted to see Yuuri do it. Wanted to see if he has what it takes. 

 

Want to see him spill blood. Blood on the grounds that Viktor owns as if it’s a homage to him.

 

Yuuri was snarling at the guards holding him back, and the crowd jeers that they let Yuuri finish his opponent off. Viktor stands up from his seat, ignores Yuri shouting at him to stop whatever he is about to do, and jumps down to the pit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Yuuri could not think straight. All he wanted is to feel that satisfying crick when he dislocates the man’s neck away from his spine. Want to beat the other bloody and brutal for daring to verbally assault him before the match.

 

_“Bare your neck for me, and I will go easy on you and fuck you to oblivion after this.”_

 

The words ring in his ears, never stopping, and he is dissatisfied with the fact that the man is only out cold and clean. He is clean of blood, of viscera, and Yuuri wants to spill it. He wants to paint the pompous, clean, pit floor red with this bastard’s insides.  Yuuri’s only trigger, the one thing that makes him reel over, is the threat of rape. It brings back memories of unpleasant times, and with it is his violence craving for the blood of his enemies on his lips. 

 

_“Bare your neck for me, and I will go easy on you and fuck you to oblivion after this.”_

 

_“Raise that ass higher for me, Yuuri.”_

 

_“I’m going to cum in you, Yuuri, and you will like it. I know you like it.”_

 

Yuuri roars, anger getting the best of him as he twists away from the guards. His enemy is being carried off, and he runs. He will not be satisfied until the other’s heartbeat stutters under his fingertips. 

  
The more rational part of him screams at him to stop, begs him, that this is not right. But the memories, the phantom touches, and the voices resurface and Yuuri tells his rationality to go fuck itself. 

 

He moves his feet despite the guards holding him by the hair and his arms. He runs, runs to where his prey is. He manages to get away from them a second time, and he wants to make sure he will be successful with eradicating this one. For Yuuri knows deep within him that he is only substituting this man for his real nightmares.

 

Yuuri tunnel visions, and his heart soars that he’s so close, but then everything turns to darkness when a hard punch is delivered to his stomach. Yuuri coughs, bodily fluids and red, red blood, and he slumps over the arm of whoever the person strong enough to knock him out is. 

 

He hears a voice, echoing off into the distance as he slowly loses consciousness. 

 

_“Now, now Yuuri,”_

 

Yuuri lifts his head to see silver, blue, and green. 

 

_“Save the killing some other time for me, hm, malyutka?”_

 

Yuuri passes out with his abdomen feeling like its on fire and wondering what the fuck the man was saying.


End file.
